


The souls of arrows and bullets

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Mild Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sighing, he matches her speed, bow in hand. "You're unbelievable sometimes, you know?" he says eventually, each word puncutred by a huff of breath, and he side-eyes her, smile wry and gaze bright with something she's not sure she wants to investigate. "You might've changed—we all have, actually, with all the shit that's gone on; really, it's surreal—but you're still unbelievable Natasha. Always will be."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The souls of arrows and bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings of language, flashbacks, mention of torture/brainwashing/sterilisation & other scenes readers may find uncomfortable; read with caution.

"You know that I do."

 _Unmade_ —forced into a path designed to fabricate the life Natasha had once known. The ballet, the younger features of her face and long hair as she holds the gun, shaky hands and look questioning, the stench of disinfectant and too-clean air clinging to her throat as she's wheeled through double doors by doctors with masks; the memories are still there, hidden away, yet she catches glimpses as they leak out the splits of her mind.

Clint breathes heavily beside her, his hands clenching into fists. His skin is glossy with sweat, eyes scrunched shut, and he shakes his head, once, twice, and again, and she knows it's because he's trying to shake the it out. He's trying to shake out Loki, shake out the feeling of being owned. He strains against the cuffs around his wrists, not to escape, but checking to see if they're secure, that he doesn't trust himself; Natasha can read that in him.

"It's going to take time. You've got to level out," she says. "Look at me."

Moments of his stubborn refusal pass, but then she lays a hand on his arm, a slight touch before retracting it back, to let him know she's there. His head drops back against the bed. "He's there, Nat, _shit_ —I can still feel him."

"I know."

"Tasha, how many agents did I—?"

"Don't," she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This was Loki, magic, something we weren't ever trained for."

He breathes in through his nose, and shuts his eyes again. As he opens them, he sighs, because he knows the way Natasha looks him over is a casual examination, and _she_ knows that he knows what he looks like. The pale skin is worse than the time in Budapest, a warning he might vomit, the dark bags under his eyes, the trembling in his hands, all count as factors of not be mentally sound enough yet.

"Loki, he—?" And Nat gives him the slight shake of her head, and Clint mirrors it. He still asks despite it all, pressing his chapped lips together, his bruised and scabby knuckles turning white as he tightens his fists; hard enough that Natasha makes sure there are tissues on hand if any blood were to spill. "He got away?"

"Yeah," she says. "Don't suppose he mentioned where?"

"No." Clint shakes his head; jaw working. "Never asked, never needed to know, not unless he wanted you to. He'll make his appearance soon though, lights and an audience, fucking _drama_ queen." He looks up at Natasha. "Today."

"We've gotta stop him."

"We?"

She shrugs. "Whoever's left."

"I. . . I suppose I'd sleep better once I've put an arrow through his eye socket." Again, he shakes his head, and inhales deeply. Natasha leans over, about to undo his cuffs, but he wraps his fingers around her hands. A frown cuts into his brow and his mouth is set. "Nat, don't—"

"Whatever you think you're gonna do, you won't." Her hands pause, only for a moment, but then she smirks, a soft lift of her lips; that's odd in itself, familiar with scathing glances or hostility, on most days, but hardly this. "Besides, we both know I could take your ass on any day. The winter of Moscow brings back some _vivid_ memories."

He doesn't answer for a while, and then: "You're not a soldier, Nat."

"I know."

"What did Loki do to you?"

"He didn't—I just. . ."

His fingers twitch at his sides. "Natasha."

The silence grows between them, blanketing over the air. She would lay a hand on his shoulder if it weren't for the cautious edge of his body language, tense and leaning away. Anything more, a touch to the palm of his hand, or inching closer enough to feel his breath across her face, would make him flinch. As easy as it had been in the past, excruciatingly slow touches, down his forearm, waiting until he touched her back; mere moments that are burnt into her mind, delicate little things that she only calls to when in desperation, never more in case of uprooting what must be left alone.

Instead, she keeps her gaze level with his, and follows it—the system, the way to push herself through times of uncertainty. "I've been compromised," she says eventually. "I've got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

Clint sits up straighter, wincing. "Going to war is the way to do that?"

"Right now," she says, almost a little sadly to her own ears. "It feels like the only way."

They stare at each other; a more comfortable quiet weaves through the cracks. She's still in her gear, Clint too, and they look atrocious. The slight beads of sweat on her upper lip, pulse steadying and flashes in her mind of shattering glass and the echoes of the rumbling shouts from the Hulk—he has eyes a tired blue, a split lip and self-restraint he struggles to uphold.

"Spy or soldier," she says, "you still fight."

A slight smile touches Clint's mouth. "You're different, Nat."

"Yeah?"

"You don't scare me as much."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, another trademark smirk. "When have I ever scared you?"

"That. . . that _is_ a serious question, right?" he says, easing his legs off the bed so they hang over the side, rolling his neck until it clicks. As short as it'll last, as short as a few breaths, the ease of tension is welcomed. "We've known each other years, and you've never noticed how terrifying you are? Ask anyone, they'll agree."

He stands and heads to the washroom without another word, the sound of running water following. It turns off a few minutes later, Clint coming out whilst towelling off his hands, but looks no better than before. Worst, in fact. He hides it which, had it not been Natasha, would have worked in the eyes of another. She sees past it, sees past it as she's lived it. It's in the way his shoulders are ever-so hunched, wringing the towel between his hands, and she almost allows herself to step forward and ask him about it; though she has never been good with comfort— _affection_ , in spite of similar occupations and past traumas.

The look he gives her is still, not for his own benefit, but hers, and he asks, "Are you ready for this?"  

"Are _you_?"

"Probably not," he says. "Don't think that applies here."

It isn't the answer she wants to hear, would never want to her, but she nods. "Then let's go."

—

Later, amongst the smoke and lick of flames across the city, they sit in the fast food restaurant. They're beaten and tired, proof in the way Natasha picks at her food, but keeps her eyes on Clint; he stares back at her, leg resting on her chair. Maybe it's the exhaustion settling in their bones, or slight delirium of what they've just experienced, that makes them slouch, and sink into the strange, worn atmosphere. Or, maybe it isn't.

"You holding up okay?" Clint asks, nodding at her, at the cut on her lip, the way she grimaces every so often at the pain that ripples through her side. "Jumping onto Stark's tower from one of those. . . whatever the hell they were, wasn't exactly your best idea."

She allows herself a small smirk, but it feels horrible on her lips. "I've had worse. Done worse."

"Yeah, but—"

"I'm fine. I appreciate the sentiment, if there's any behind it."

With a fry pinched between his fingers, deft movements, ones that he's familiar with, like his arrows, he snorts quietly; it isn't a humoured sound, but not empty of all amusement, nor empty of all seriousness. It's a tone she's only heard few times, and those she isn't eager to touch base on. "You know there is."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "I do."

—

His silence is more disturbing than the shouts that brought her here.

The balcony looks from the peak of the tower, overlooking the lit city of New York. It's unnaturally quiet; it would be from this height, but any big threats that would risk the state are on hold for now. Oddly so, unusual for Natasha, ready to fight if need be. That is, if Clint weren't so much of a priority, but he is.

Leaning against the railings—a shirt and gym pants all he wears—she can hear his breathing, slow, steadying sighs. She wouldn't have expected him out in the open, though he's up high, and maybe that is calming for him. He doesn't look at her when she approaches, gaze pinned ahead, and that's fine, that's all they need. All they've ever learnt to need: presence. Something to fill the bitter hole that eats away at them.

As his hands tighten around the railings, white-knuckled, he says, "I know what he said to you."

 _Loki_. "Who?"

"Don't. Don't do that, Nat." He lets out a breath. "I know you're trying to help, but, fuck."

She inches her hand closer to his on the railing, not touching. "And you? Reliving it? Blaming yourself for something that was out of your control, that's what you want? _Don't_ , Clint—don't do it, for the sake of both our sanities."

It's clear he will, and Natasha listens, always has, only wanting to steer away from this type of discussion mainly for his stability, even if it means sacrificing her own. He's wide awake, his voice torn and hoarse from the shouts that were ripped from his throat. It's not the worst she's seen him, but it's bad, and she knows it as his hands tremble, any sense of steadiness gone.

"He isn't here, and that's what matters," he says. "I expect him to be there when I wake up, to—jesus—to tear him to shreds."

"You won't have to."

A snort. "Is this where you tell me you've got him locked up somewhere?"

"If only," she says, looking down below, "but he's back in Asgard now, doubt he'll be back anytime soon."

"But you _do_ think he could come back?"

She shrugs, and crosses her arms, resting them on the railings. "I wouldn't be surprised, but if it makes you feel any better, if that time comes, you can have the first punch." His expression is straight-faced, almost deadpan. "Or all the punches."

That earns her a brief smile, not enough to stay for more than a few seconds. It's something, and adds to the list of other _somethings_. In Egypt, an unresponsive Clint after the collateral damage that took the lives of two innocents, weeks before he looked at Natasha, but it was something; tortured under the target, in a warehouse hidden deep within Cuba, slipped spinal discs and broken legs left as repercussions, and months until the blank look in his gaze was replaced by a flicker of life, but it was something. They were all somethings, little moments of Clint coming back, and even though he still holds these somethings as baggage, they're also recoveries. That's what Natasha focuses on, for him.

It's mutual, for whenever she hasn't been able to keep her hands steady, or taking out her frustrations on a punching bag lasted long enough to make her skin break and knuckles bleed—there, quiet and thoughtful, Clint would wrap up what harm had been done, murmur nothings to her, spar with her, wipe the blood away.  

In the end, each something ended the same: the past would catch up with them, their past, and the moment is broken.

Broken, but remembered, all in different ways.

"I'll take that deal," he says, pushing off the rails; his back muscles ripple, veins standing out on his skin. "That means you can't come swooping in, kicking his ass. No takebacks."

"I might not be able to help myself."

"Take what's mine, and we'll see what happens."

She smirks. "Sure, Barton. You'll what? Kick my ass? I've got one word: Chile."

None of this, the something, won't last for long. Soon, the words will die out, the sun will come up and cast a light over them, the new day of the unknown will start, and they will move on. It's that easy, ridiculously easy. They'll move on, but it'll be remembered—and in different ways.

—

"Where will you go?"

"Does it—"

"Yeah," Clint says. "It matters, Nat."

"Somewhere, anywhere." She shrugs, a lazy movement, but a stiffness travels down her back. "I know it'll follow me wherever I go, the internet is worldwide. I need this, just for a while. They'll see it as running away, you'll see it as time to build a new identity. I see it as catching a break. I don't need to be anyone—comes with the job I used to have. You don't need to follow me, either. I'll be back."

His gaze drops from her face, and she knows what he sees. He reaches up, barely brushing over the small, arrow necklace laid on her neck; rough, calloused fingers that linger on skin, a spark that crackles across her body for a fraction of a second, before he sucks in a breath and ends it, shattering it into tiny pieces that can't be salvaged. It happens instantly, his hasty movement as he pulls his hand back, and the slight tug in her chest that she's forced to ignore.

They're standing on the balcony again, and it's so much colder than before. Cold from the brisk fall air, cold from the fact his hand has left her skin. They were warm, fluent, as odd as the word describes, but she remembers them; she remembers the few times they mapped all the stretch marks, the grooves, the criss-crossing of scars, on cosy mornings that made her want to wretch from the sickly sweetness, but stay within its warmth nonetheless. Not for the soft mattress, or the way it was peaceful, but for his hands, and how they knew her so well.

Clint smiles sadly. "A little piece of me for the road, huh?"

"Something like that," she says, and she is quieter than usual. "It's a shame that's all it is."

He smiles again, but it's fleeting, then replaced by an intense look—one that holds hers, long enough that for a moment, she thinks he might lean over and close the gap between them. She shifts on her feet. He blinks, and the moment is over, like the rest of them. Instead, to fill the sudden void, he rubs the back of his neck, and says,

"Call, or send a postcard." And it's there, a faint crack in his voice that he pretends to not notice. "Come back to me, all right?"

She will.

Whenever that may be.

—

Three months later, she comes back, a box of fudge in hand.

Clint stares at it, almost inspecting it, disbelief written across his face. "Cornwall? You went to—Cornwall? Of all the places I'd have pictured you in, you chose the british countryside?"

"Was that not my motive?" she asks, smirking, by this whole scene; it is quite unbelievable, out of the ordinary. Worth it. "If you wouldn't have looked there, the chances of the government, press, or any supposed intelligence looking was pretty non-existent. Besides, Stark told me, and I quote, their fudge is like heaven fashioned into squares."

"Is there anywhere that guy hasn't been?"

"No."

A pause.

"Hey, Nat?"

"Yeah?"

"This fudge is amazing," he says, and she doesn't expect anything more from Clint.

 —

SHIELD is disbanded, but they're still offered inside jobs, independent ones, mainly by Fury.

Tonight, they cruise to Hell's Kitchen in some car Clint hotwired and 'promised' to put it back when they're done. His arrows poke out from the under the seat, the darkness of night luminous from the blue lights of her suit, guns and tasers strapped to her belt; she checks the clips, the voltage, and everything that will rip through whoever stands in her way.

It's an in-and-out job, she knows, read through the intel. A dozen guards take watch of this place, of a door that holds the boy who'd been kidnapped whilst his father watched, planned for a trafficking ring, and they'd heard about it, nothing more had to be said for them to agree. It's not hard; it's not a challenge, and roughly a ten-minute job. In, and out. That's what she knows, that's what she can do and more, what she needs to be doing right now.

"So," Clint says, taking a hard left. "This Hell's Kitchen, is it—"

"It's not the restaurant."

They pull over a few blocks away, and head down an alleyway; the back door of the building is unlocked, and they're ready. She's ready. And then—

It's trashed. The guards, beaten and unconscious, line the halls. Each are bloodied messes, noses broken and even bones sticking out of their legs, a dented microwave sitting beside one of the guard's head, and there's no real way to know what happened, but Natasha knows it's been a short time; it's been a short time, and she doesn't know what's happened. She wants to act like she does, but she can't, not in front of Clint.

She follows the trail of bodies, and ends up in the room where the boy was held. She knows from the empty food tray and bottle of water. It's the spot of blood on the ground that makes her falter—makes her forget for a moment that maybe whoever came here, saved the boy, maybe he's now fine, but he's young, a child, and that's too familiar, too intimate. It's in that moment that it's almost as if she can hear the boy's shouts, his pleas, a desperate shuddering of fear and confusion.

 _One_ , she in breathes in, sees the flash of the six-year-old, brown-haired girl left for dead in Vancouver; sees the pregnant woman they'd found tied to a chair in the remote fields of Edinburgh, starved and tortured, both dying a week later in hospital; sees the young girl, with hair as red as the blood on her hands, shaky hands trying to hold the gun; sees the same girl, with the same gun, standing in front of a man who has his bow trained on her, unsure and conflicted; _sees_ this girl, so vividly, the same girl that didn't die that day, now staring at the white-washed wall, where others aren't so fortunate.

The moment is ripped from her as Clint stands beside her. "Whoever did this was injured," he says. "There's spots of blood everywhere, and unless they can be in multiple places at once, I'd say they were alone, too."

"And the kid?"

"You know I can't say, Nat." He keeps his quiver tight in his grip. "We need to—"

"No," she cuts him off, spinning on her heel, walking down the hall, and out the door. The wind is cutting against her skin, and she follows the alley to wherever it takes her, into the street, with Clint on her heels. "I need a drink. I know what you're thinking, but it's one in the morning, and by this time they'll be blind drunk. They won't notice us."

"Aside from the fact you're glowing, actually glowing. You don't think that'll draw any attention?"

She shrugs. "If it does, I'll lie. It's my best advantage. . . or flaw, depending on how you interpret it."

Clint hangs back for a second before following, the bar loud with music and chatters and the clinking of glasses. They look, of course they do, and Natasha knew full well they would, but she knew they'd look away, too. Intimidated, maybe. Think it's a from a terrible costume party, even. Either way, they look elsewhere, but Natasha wouldn't have cared if they hadn't. She orders whatever is strongest drink along with its bottle, takes a seat in the corner, and downs it in one.

The second glass goes down more smoothly, less of a burn. In the end, she grasps the neck of the bottle and knocks it back. She takes one swig, two, and a third, until it's hot in her chest. It doesn't warm the abnormal sensation of cold over her body.

"Jesus," Clint says, and snatches the bottle from her hand. "Don't go down this route."

"Why?"

"It won't erase—"

"I'm not looking to _erase_ it—"

"Then what are you trying to do?" he asks, a little too loudly. "Drink until you're numb? Until you're intoxicated enough to add this to your ledger? Is that it? Cause it's not the way to go. Trust me on this, Nat."

Natasha stares at him for a second, and though she hates it, she quickly glances away, swallowing a deep breath. "It's not what I want, but what I need, because _I don't know_. I act like I know everything, like I knew what happened to that kid back there. All I have are loose ends and—" She pauses on a curse, and spits out, "—faith. I don't rely on faith, and if I do, I'm in the wrong business."

"Nat. . ." It sounds grave, and for once the lines on his face are prominent. "Are you thinking of leaving again?"

"Would it be such a bad idea?"

"Like this. . .? I'd have to say yes."

Her fingers twitch for another drink. "I can take care of myself."

"I know," he says. "But that doesn't mean I can't look out for you, that I won't."

She's in the stage of aftershocks, blurry images of that wall, and the children she's crossed in her life, blended together until it's just a mesh of loss and regrets; the drink doesn't numb her, doesn't do a damn thing, and part of her is annoyed by Clint being right, that for once, all she wants is to not be reprimanded for doing something off her own back. Even as simple as having a drink. As much as she hates that she shouldn't be drinking at all—she's been there, in the dark times, of slipping and falling, and she tries so many different things to relieve the pain, but in the end, it still comes back for more, sucking her dry.

 _In, and out_ , she breathes. She breathes until the nausea fades, until that itch to drink goes along with it, and Clint stops looking at her as if she's time bomb with crossed wires. He stops looking at her like that, but she knows, eventually, it'll be back.

—

They're on pause.

That's the best way she can describe it; ever since Budapest, they've been stuck on a broken record, not speaking of it.

It's easy, most of the time, with ways to cope and the distractions of protecting cities. There are dips in her self-preservation, jolted back to that night, of heated breaths against her neck, of lips brushing against the pulse on her wrist, of light streaming through the blinds of a hotel room hours later, and the awkward silence that bloated the room. She doesn't know how he remembers it—or if he chooses to remember it at all—but she remembers it as something she's afraid of.

They're on pause, but part of her wants that record to continue playing.

—

"Nat?" A voice says, hands cupping her cheeks. "Nat? C'mon, Nat."

Her head screams—memories, clashing around in her skull, ones that she understands but can't; the cold table on her back and thin gown she was forced to wear for graduation, the cowering man with a bag on his head as he pleas for his life, it's all there, and it's all too familiar. Clint's voice is distant, trying to force its way past the fog that is her past.

It doesn't work, the fighting, or the excessive blinking, or clinging onto the soothing voice beside her. The pain is striking, each new memory a blow. She sucks in a breath, a burn in her chest as it expands her lungs, and it's not enough, to breathe, to her Clint's voice, to know this isn't real, but even after Loki, after magic, after the preparations she'd made, she isn't ready for this. Sensitivity is an understatement; sensitivity scrapes the surface of what describes the shadows that loom over her.

She's vaguely aware of the arm slipping under her legs, hefting her up into his arms. Of his voice as he speaks through the comm. And the engines of the jet. She thinks she must black out at one point, as the next moment she opens her eyes, her head is clear—but no less violated—and they're at Clint's farm, the sun setting on the horizon.

"You're all gonna need to bunk up," Clint says to the team, and tightens his arm around Natasha's waist. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, or croaks. "I can walk."

"You probably can, but like hell am I gonna trust chance."

Managing to roll her eyes, she lets him. He unlocks a door, and sets her down on the double bed. It's his room; she's been here once before, after that. "I can take the floor—"

"You'll take the bed, you mean."

"Clint—"

"Are you kidding me, Nat?" His voice is hard, but his face is torn, crumpled up in incredulity, or agony, she can't decipher it right now. "One, you're my guest, and two, you've just gone through something that no one should go through. I know what it's like. You need this. You need rest, you need to eat. You need to level out, remember?"

He yanks sheets from the drawers beside her, a mattress from underneath the bed, and makes it all up. Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose. "I can do that from the floor."

"Yeah, well, it's not happening."

In the end, she relents, slipping under the covers, but she doesn't sleep. Or, maybe she does. All she knows is that within whatever amount of time, she is sweating, the room is stifling, suffocating, and the memories are back; they're relentless, slicing through her thoughts like a knife, and she cries out at the hand that suddenly grabs her arm, like a vice, tight and cold. The key in her head turns and clicks, defence-mode, and she throws whoever it is off with a ram of her shoulder in their chest.

The person grabs her again, and it's unnervingly gentle, tugging her down to the floor. A crack vibrates across her elbow as she smashes it into their face—a loud, painful yell, and then what must be blood dripping to the floor. They try for a third time, but she's ready, she's there, with her hand going for their throat and pinning them up against the wall, and—

Blood covers his face, but he holds his hands up. "Nat. It's me. It's Clint. Look at me."

"Кто?" she spits. "Заткнись."

His rigid expression wavers at that. "Remember my face."

She knees him in the stomach, and he doubles over, enough for her to slip away. As she goes for a punch, he catches it in his fist, but then pushes at her until she stumbles back. She goes for another, and he blocks it again. He doesn't fight back, doesn't even when she manages to take him down; even when, as she stands over him, panting and sweaty, and he's bleeding—from his nose, from the cut on his lip, from his eyebrow, from all over.

Even when, as she watches the way he swallows, a thick gulp, it dawns on her. She remembers the face, beaten and bruised, just like back when she was young and vulnerable. It doesn't happen fast, but slow, feeling her heartbeat in her ears, like a ticking clock, the counting of seconds until she falls to her knees. It's like she's young all over again, and vulnerable, back in that time.

A mess stares at her, a mess that matches the state of her hands. Red everywhere. Red is everywhere.

"Clint—" She reaches out, but stops. "Shit."

He doesn't flinch from her, and that's what makes this a whole lot worse. It's like a wreck when he's the one to shuffle forward, not touching her, but close enough so she can hear the strain in his voice as he says, "It's okay. No—Nat, look at me. It's okay."

"Why?"

"Because—"

"No," she says, and for a reason unbeknownst to her, she smiles, and it splits her mouth and it's disgusting. "Why didn't you kill me? When we first met—why didn't you kill me?"

"You shouldn't be thinking about that, jesus," he says, running a hand through his hair. "That's not, we can't—"

"Answer the question, Clint." She heaves in a breath, and it runs through her body in shudder, the sweat on her forehead drying, along with the clumps of hair that stick to it. "Please, just answer the question."

It takes an eternity, of them holding each other's gazes, heavy breaths and rapid pulses. She wonders if this is still part of the vision, if she's not really hunched over, in front of a bruised, abused Clint, and that's what she wants, for once, she wants it to be part of the fucked up part of her mind. Seeing him this way, at the brunt of her own hands, is tragic and an agony. It's tragic that he shuffles closer and brushes a stray curl away from her face, tucking it around her ear. It's tragic that it's done so gently, that she wants to be sick from the simple touch of it.

"Because you weren't crying," he says after a long pause. "You weren't crying. . . but you wanted to, I could see it."

The rush of recollection is overwhelming, and she nods, a laugh making its way past, a little crazed, pained. "I wanted to."

"And it was that—the fact they took that away from you? Underneath that mask, what they'd. . . programmed you to be, still a part of you tried to break out in whatever way possible. I helped you because they wouldn't let you cry." It's true; they never let her cry, being a weakness, an interference with her duty as a spy, a mere child. Hearing it from somebody else's lips makes it more real, in spite of the reluctance to address it, but that is what it is: a reality, a brutal part of her past. "And what happened back there, your vision? You don't need to tell me."

"Because you already know?"

"No," he says. "Because you have a choice now."

—

Ultron kidnaps her.

Throws her into a dimly-lit cell, with rusty bars and old equipment, a stupid thing to do. It's a far shot, but she assembles a transmitter, sending a message within five minutes—a signal, just to let the Avengers know she's alive, at least. Within another five, wires are connected, a time is set, the little box jammed in-between the bars, and the fuse is blown.

It explodes in a shower of bricks and fire, the door torn off its hinges. Ultron comes for her through the smoke, and she runs at him, swinging her leg around his upper back until she's locked around him, the familiar charge of Widow's bite buzzing along her wrists as she slams her hands down on his neck. He convulses, long enough for her to grab her gun from her belt, and empties all the clips into his head. Metal grinds, crunches as he staggers forward, sighing, almost tired and bored.

His hand fists her hair, and flips her over onto the floor with a thud. A breath rushes from her lungs; one, a punch lands beside her head as she scarcely dodges it; two, she rolls into a crouch position, aiming to do something, to escape; three, she manages to jam her baton in what would be his stomach, but is pulled back by the scruff of her neck as she tries to run; four, Ultron wrenches it free without so much of a flinch, and she might be dead in a moment, and that's okay; five, he lifts his arm to deliver the kill, but then there is a slicing noise in the air, and an arrow lodges in where his eye would be; six, a timer ticks, she pushes herself up and steps back in time, and it detonates; on her seventh breath, Ultron's head explodes, scattering the remains.

She kicks the remains of his body into the opening, down below.

"I had that," is the first thing she says to Clint.

"Wait—"

"I told you specifically to not come after me, and instead evacuate the city." She says, rolling her eyes. "It doesn't matter know. What you did won't hold him off for long."

He falls in step with her, but tries to urge her back. "Wait, uh. Evacuating the city—yeah, there might be a slight problem with that. It's not exactly. . . on the ground. It's—it's flying, the city is fucking flying, Nat. It's not on the ground, and it's flying mid-air, in the sky. I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"You're right. It's not like I was busy or anything, like stalling Ultron for your asses."

"Are we really having this conversation?"

"We were," she says, a brief smirk on her lips, breaking out into a run. "We're not now."

Sighing, he matches her speed, bow in hand. "You're unbelievable sometimes, you know?" he says eventually, each word puncutred by a huff of breath, and he side-eyes her, smile wry and gaze bright with something she's not sure she wants to investigate. "You might've changed—we all have, actually, with all the shit that's gone on; really, it's surreal—but you're still unbelievable Natasha. Always will be."

The thing is, in spite of being amidst an oncoming battle, one that's unexplainable, unknown of what their endings will be, she doesn't mind what he says, what usually would've been dismissed, taken lightly. She takes it now, wants to hold onto it. She needs it, one of the good things amongst the bad—the scolding voice of her trainers, the aftermath of sterilisation, the first time she felt a gun in her palm, shot a man, too accustomed with warzones, will unfailingly be with her until her last days. It's Clint though; she needs that, in whatever way possible. She thinks of the time they'd fucked in Budapest, and he'd whispered a kiss across her lips the morning after when he thought she was sleeping—she sees it now, holds it close, but she can live with simply knowing it happened. There are her teammates, friends, and then there is Clint.

She can survive alone, of course she can, but living is a very different thing. Clint shows her how to do it sometimes.

They break out into the outside, the sunlight peeking through the trees, a bitter cold settling over her skin. They keep running, in spite of a sudden rumbling beneath their feet, the distance screams of civilians growing louder with each step, robots flying through the air, explosions, the change of death too expectant.

"So, what's the plan?" he asks. "Kill as many as we can? That sort of thing?"

"Yeah." She presses her lips together, forces a shrug. "Until a better alternative comes along. It'll be fun."

"Improvising. Right. Yeah, I can do that. I can improvise with two dozen arrows." It's a weak attempt to lighten the mood, but still a tiny, so very small smile makes its way across her face from how stupid it really is, how Clint it is, and she shakes her head; he notices, and smiles along with her. "Laugh it up—how many bullets do you have?"

"Less," she says. "That's what the improvising is for."

He smiles. "You really are unbelievable."

—

An odd sense of calm ghosts over them that evening, after the city has stopped flying and civilisation is presumably back to normal, enough that they leave a few hours later on the Quinjet, and Natasha can finally close her eyes for a second. Clint does, too, dirt streaked across his face, but keeps his arrows clutched at his side; it's a comfort, an uncertainty that all is over. He had with Loki—in despite of making jokes, a smug look on his face, as Thor took his brother back to Asgard, Natasha noticed the trembles in his hands and sleepless nights he lied about. It happens now, will happen, hidden by the spontaneous sparring at three a.m or delving into assignments. A few hours in, Natasha gets up, and sits down beside him.

The jet rumbles with turbulence, and Clint flinches at that. He tries, always tries, to prove things like these don't affect him in the slightest. Stubborn determinacy to block it out, move onto the next mission, even if that mission will have the same result. _Behind the humour, behind the jokes_ , she's thought of saying over and over, _is what I've been trying to hide all along too; the fear of getting close, of opening the book you'd been told to keep closed, is what holds you down. I can see it in you, you punish yourself for things that aren't your fault, and we know that, we know what's the lie and what's the truth, but we choose the wrong answer. You've been through shit, I've been through shit, but there is something good we could cling to, if we let it. That day, when you first saw me, you dropped your bow to your side and reached out to me—I didn't understand, struggle to now, but something told me to believe you because I knew you had blood on your hands, and I did too, and maybe that's why I took a step forward. I stepped forward; that's why I stepped forward without the order to._ By her own consciousness.

"It isn't your fault." She settles for instead, nudging his shoulder. "Maximoff made that decision."

"I know, just—" Breathing heavily through his nose, Clint tries a second time. "I don't understand why."

She gets up, finding a cloth and bottle of water, wetting it. He hisses as she presses it to the cut on his forehead, but then relaxes as she lays it on his neck. "You need to rest. I'll wake you up once we get back to the tower."

"I'm fine."

"And I'm not going anywhere."

For a few moments, he stares at her, vulnerable and weak, things she wouldn't usually pin on Clint Barton, but times have changed. As he finally closes his eyes, she stays by his side—never has she left it in the aftermath of struggles, just as he hasn't left her side, even with her dragged silences and blank stares and undetermined time of how long it'll last—and his head drops down onto her shoulder, pressing close. The Avengers eye her, them, Tony raising an eyebrow, Steve and Thor a gentle smile, and the Vision too busy doing the same as Natasha is to Wanda.

An hour at most passes, and they haven't moved. Or, that Natasha doesn't want to in case of jolting Clint, disturbing the few minutes of peace. It doesn't work. "Stop thinking," he says, unmoving still, shuffling closer, but when his eyes open, they land on Wanda. "I'm fine, Nat. I've no right to not be."

They land on the platform an hour later, tired and shuffling into the tower.

On a better day, with less pain, achingly sore as they move, they might've stuck around with the team and celebrated, drinks, pool, music, a party that Stark probably already has planned, is something she wouldn't mind right now, but with a slumped Clint against her side who can barely walk without wincing, she instead heads for his level, easing him down on the bed.

She's seen bad, even incredibly bad. Clint with a black eye that's swelled it shut and cracked ribs, a dislocated knee and his own arrow stabbed through his shoulder, or a mess of blood and instability, unable to stand on his feet without keeling over; she's seen it all, treated it all, but this rarely happens—abused by his own mind, his face worn out and heaving a sigh when he lays down, and she wouldn't be surprised if he started sprouting grey hairs and creaking bones from the stress of this.

So, she expects it when he says, "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

And yet she stills replies with, "Do what?"

"The Avengers."

"You're not that old, Barton."

"I'm at that age though," he says around a smile, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. "Retire, work on the farm. Maybe self-employed assignments, less shit to deal with."

She smirks, though it's a little shaky around the edges, frayed, and she doesn't know why—or, she does, and chooses to ignore it for the sake of the avoidance of discomfort. "Gonna leave me behind, huh?"

"You're planning to stay?"

"Well," she murmurs, looking down at her hands as she pinches the sheet between her fingers. "Stark wants out. Thor's going back to Asgard. Steve thinks he and I could train the New Avengers." She shrugs, as if amused. "It may not be what I was made for, am made for, but it has its good points."

His hand rests over her own. "You are made for it, Nat, more than you think."

 _You look at me like that_ , she thinks, all in the space of a second, yet feels like years-worth. _Touch my hand, my neck, as if I'm not the only one who thinks about it. Life as a spy was deception, murder without remorse, manipulation and lies rolling off the tongue; maybe this was part of that at a time, but then there was hesitation where conviction should've been, uncertainty where resolute should've, and even now, years later, those things linger—I hesitate, I'm unsure, of what this could be, what it will do to me. Love is for children, I once said, and I can't remember if I was lying or not. Life as an agent is deception, killing, manipulation and lies, but it meant that I could smile, I could laugh, I could cry. You supported me as a spy, even though I pointed a gun at your head. You support me as an agent, even though I break the rules sometimes. You support me as Natasha, or Tasha, or Nat, as anyone, and I'll never understand why, but I'll take it._

 _I don't feel like any of those people now, no fabrications that I pin to me. I feel like someone who wants answers, who for once knows logic doesn't apply here, knows this could blow up in my face, knows in the end, it could be a catastrophe. I would've ran—I could run now, but I've run all my lives, and maybe this one just wants an alternative._ And so she leans down, only slightly, until her hair brushes over Clint's cheek, until his mouth parts and that doubt crawls into her stomach, but she still says,

"Are you going to kiss me or not, Barton?"

And then he's doing just that, kissing her, swallowing her sigh, a steady hand cupping her cheek and the other settling on her waist. She lets him, lets him lick her bottom lip, crowd her in against the pillows as he hovers over her, and for a moment he pulls back and they're staring at each other, like in a romantic crisis, a scene of unkempt looks and clouded lucidity.

"You do want this, right?" he asks, chest rising with heavy breaths. "I'm not reading this wrong."

"Would I have asked you if I didn't?"

The corner of his lip twitches in a sad smile. "I don't know. Sometimes I still think I'm figuring you out."

"Do you want to kiss—?"

"Were you seriously going to ask if I wanted to kiss you?" he asks, voice deadpan and face almost blank from emotion, and glances down at his lap, shifting uncomfortably. "I think the fact my pants feel two sizes smaller answers that for you. But—yes, of course I do. Have since the first time I did."

She tilts her head, her voice coming out like a hum. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"The right moment."

"Now isn't that?" A playful smirk that touches her eyes. "We're not in a Hugh Grant movie, you know."

"Hugh—since when have you watched his movies? Actually, no, doesn't matter, but we sort of are. Romantic setting, nice sheets, were in another war, looking like shit. Which, I don't want to make your injuries worse, or—I don't know, Nat. Is this a good idea?"

_Good ideas have never been our thing, she thinks. When have they ever? Infiltrating the enemy in Prague, with only guns and our hands, resulting in broken arms and fractured eye sockets, but we still did it; jumping from building to building in Italy as our target ran, one of us falling and nearly dying, but we still did it; trying to fight with a broken leg, and you have to carry me back to base, injured yourself, but we still did it. It's not because it's right, or good, because our way of doing things, who we are. Reckless. Why can't we be reckless in this?_

"Good ideas haven't exactly been on our side," she says, the first thing she's said as well as thought. "We don't know if we haven't tested the waters first."

"You know the metaphors just make this a whole lot more confusing."

"What's there to be confused about?"

"This, Nat. Whatever we are." He reaches up and brushes his thumb over her cheek, trailing it down until it rests on her arrow necklace; a brief smile flits over his mouth, then disappears. "I don't—look, I don't want to screw up again, with anything, most of all you. I already thought I had back in Budapest."

"Because we—?"

"No, no, not because we had sex. Because I cut you off."

She leans into his touch, laying a hand over his and linking their fingers together. "I was no better, Clint, for the same reason as you. Of all things, that's what scared me, because after learning, being taught, when something comes along that isn't as easy as having a gun in your hand or reading people, it's different."

"You mean—"

 _Love?_ She wants to say. _Is this what love is? Fighting, confusion, being on a team that battles against aliens and robots, a history between us that could be believed to be a story, but no fairytale. I wouldn't want the fairytale, or maybe I would, and I've just never known that person—I could've been that person, if there'd been no Red Room, or SHIELD, but learning of that life isn't something I plan to find out. There's something else I want to find out, something I have since that damn night in Budapest, since that mission, and since how that mission turned out. We might think of that day and night again, might revisit the memory, but for now, let's focus on this._

She presses a kiss to the palm of his hand, taking a deep breath, because that is how unsteady it is, a shiver running through her body; because this is most exposure she's given, even to Clint, the one who's closest to her. She may hesitate, even in these times, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want it. It means after years of surviving, being tortured, torn apart, and reminded of that through a vision that still lingers in the back of her mind, she wonders if she is deserving of this living, the question she's asked for too long. It's finally beginning to seem like she is. She doesn't need to only survive—she can now live, too.

"I don't know. I guess, right now, it's something I want to find out for myself."

"I can work with that."

He leans up onto his elbows, but doesn't kiss her; it's the uncertainty that lingers, waiting for permission, and though she sighs, she's glad. It's what makes her close the distance, swallows his moan, and fists his hair with trembling hands. As she grinds on his lap, muscles taut and an ache that is still dull in her bones, she doesn't mind, the wave of something else, something better washing over her, is what distracts her from the pain.

"You know, Nat, mmph—" he tries to say, but cuts off when she snakes her hand down his chest, resting on his lap. "I might be out of touch. This isn't exactly something I've been doing left, right and centre."

"And you think I have?"

"Well. Have you?"

"Yes," she says, lips grazing over his jaw, "but not for this reason."

An odd, rumbling sound growls up his throat, and he grips her waist tight, rolling them over.

It makes her stop, that one feeling of having someone over her, a shadow casting over her face, a nausea punching her in the stomach; the memory of her with pigtails, that same fucking gun in her hand, completing what she needed to do, and that same fucking cold table against her back, gloved hands, disgusting hands, wrenching open her legs and needles and tools coming towards her, but this is a graduation, it's meant to happen, and—

The weight lifts off her, and she blinks. Clint is at the end of the bed, flushed, kneeling. His whole body looks just as strung tight as hers, and his throat constricts as he swallows. "I'm sorry—jesus, Nat, you're shaking. Why didn't you stop me? No, don't answer that. I know you couldn't have. But—are you back with me? Tasha."

"I'm fine." She shakes her head once. "I'm fine."

"Can I. . .?"

She nods, and he slowly moves forward, but he only lies down next to her. They breaths are both shaky, steadying, and so she takes his hand in hers. It doesn't mean she wants to try again, she knows he won't, but that's okay, because they have tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. They've got time, for anything, to try again. She's okay with that.

Clint moves onto his side, his other hand coming to rest on her necklace again. It's a comfort. "You're okay?"

As she looks at him, at the dirt on his face, and split lip that she can still taste the blood on her own, the way he moves close but makes sure not to invade her space, the way he his breathing moves in sync with hers, and how, for a man who has known the life of no hesitation, no waiting, his patience is something she admires. She's had this before—the flashbacks, the nightmares, as not even she can run away from it sometimes; she ran to Cornwall because she could, ran to all those countries because she could, because she wanted to.

She blocked out her past because it hurt, not out of shame, and so she wanted to. She wanted to run.

Unlike then, this time she doesn't feel like running.

"I'm okay."

—

They've been enemies before, standing off until one drops his bow, and the other drops her gun.

They've been tied back to back in a warehouse after a mission went rouge, ambushed by a dozen that was eventually child's play for her—bruised knuckles and an out-of-place hair had been the resulting damage, and he had looked at her like she was the sun.

They've been stumbling down a busy highway, torn up with gunshot wounds and broken wrists, stuck in a motel for three days with crappy re-runs of soap operas and bad takeout food, waiting until their faces were removed from the most wanted list; they had twin beds, but for a reason she hadn't known then, she wished it had been a double.

They've been a married couple in Budapest, and even with the comms in their ears, the tight black dress, violent red lipstick that would leave a mark on his neck, and the knife she had strapped to her thigh—the plain clues as to why they were there, what they needed to do, sometimes she wondered if it were real or not; she wondered if it were real when his hands ran over her open legs, pressing kisses to the inside of her thighs, or the way he whispered her name as he took her.

They've been in the worst of times, but they've been _their_ times.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any mistakes, that's on me; tried to edit it as best as I could. This is _long_ , and my first proper Clint/Natasha fic—I do have a prequel planned, a lil addition involving Budapest, (mainly how I would've loved to have seen it.) Please leave a kudos! ♡
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> _Translation _: _Who? Shut up. _____


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